Classic Poem

Behold the silvered mists that rise
From all-night toiling in the corn.
The mists have duties up the skies,
The skies have duties with the morn;
While all the world is full of earnest care
To make the fair world still more wondrous fair,

More lordly fair; the stately morn
Moves down the walk of golden wheat;
Her guards of honor gild the corn
In golden pathway for her feet;
The purpled hills she crowns in crowns of gold,
And God walks with us as He walked of old.